


A Half Hour Later in Newfoundland

by Medie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Newfoundland, The 'Oh Canada' Comment Fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:58:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now that one's a stranger if there ever was one/With his underwear stuffed and his trap door undone/Is he wearin' his mother's big 42 bra." - The Mummers Song, Bud Davidage. </p><p>Stiles, Derek, Scott, some beer, some rum, and a good old-fashioned Newfoundland blizzard. Or how everything's better in Canada.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Half Hour Later in Newfoundland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hardticket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardticket/gifts).



> Written for hardticket's prompt for the [Oh Canada Comment Fest"](http://marguerite-26.livejournal.com/753686.html): Derek would be the grumpiest mummer who ever lived and the only sober one. 
> 
> Didn't actually get Derek into the bra this time around, but there's always sequels! 
> 
> For those completely confused, you can find the song mentioned in the summary, complete with a reinactment of mummering [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8OPy7De3bk&feature=youtu.be). 
> 
> The Irving glass Scott's holding and Stiles waxes poetic about? Existed. Witness their wonder [here](http://pinterest.com/pin/29343835044495942/).
> 
> Some terms clarified:
> 
> MUN - Memorial University of Newfoundland  
> CONA - College of the North Atlantic (offers first year of MUN at campuses all around the province)  
> George Street - a real street in the city of St. John's (capital city of the province and the city wherein MUN's main campus can be found) that has the honour of being the longest street of bars in North America. (Or it was the last time I checked) So, yes, if there is a place on the face of the earth that could get a werewolf drunk...

"Nobody does it anymore," Stiles laments, slouching and immediately regretting it. He doesn't know what dump Scott hauled this couch out of, but the springs are vicious and sneaky fuckers and jab his ass every time he so much as twitches. He rolls onto his side to sit up, nearly spilling the Coors in his hand. He flails, trying to save it, and ends up sucking beer off his fingers. 

Someone makes a noise behind him, but he ignores it and keeps right on ranting. "Seriously, it was the best thing _ever_."

Scott shoves a towel at him and drops down into a chair that has to be older than the couch, more duct tape and good wishes than anything. The Irving glass in his hand is chipped, worn, the pattern so faint that Stiles almost can't see the salmon on it. He still has a set of those somewhere, his dad's office maybe. Mint condition, no less. 

"You thought the whole thing was crazy, Stiles," Scott says, digging up a flask of Lamb's to go with the coke already in the glass.

Stiles swipes the glass as soon as he's done pouring in the rum. Not like it'll do Scott much good these days anyway, so it would be a shame to let decent booze go to waste. 

"Dude, we so need to do George Street sometime," he says, grinning when the thought strikes him. "Maybe the whole drunk thing is just a matter of quantity. We can work our way down the street and see how we do." If there's a place on earth that can get a werewolf drunk, it has to be Newfoundland. It's a matter of _pride_. 

"It wouldn't work," Derek shoves his legs over and sits down. "Trust me." 

Stiles glares at him, but gets up and makes room anyhow. It's like thirty below (forty-five with the windchill which he'll hate no matter how much time he lives here) and Scott's got the fire blazing, but werewolves were built for this climate and he's getting warmer by the second with Derek sitting there. "Tried it, huh?" he asks, resisting the urge to stick his feet beneath Derek's leg. Wool socks are so overrated. His feet are totally freezing. 

Of course, that might have a lot to do with the fact his socks have holes in the toe, but hey, whatever, they're supposed to keep up anyway. They're _wool_.

"Yeah," Derek says, giving his own feet a wiggle. His socks are perfectly intact. So not fair. "Complete waste of money. One end to the other and totally sober when I got there." 

Stiles makes himself not think about sock-related envy and nods. "First year at MUN?" Every freshman tries it, legal or no. His dad has a buddy at the RNC and the _stories_ are why Stiles is doing his first year at CONA. 

Derek shakes his head. "No." 

It takes Stiles a second to realize. A werewolf who can't get drunk wouldn't hit every bar on George Street on a dare.

A werewolf fresh from the fire that killed his entire family and looking for a way to forget everything, though, he totally would.

Fuck. 

Even he isn't stupid enough to try apologizing after that, so instead he just makes a face and pretends to be completely oblivious. "Didn't work, huh?"

"Nope." Doesn't stop Derek from stealing his drink anyway. He sits back with it, smirking a little and Stiles can't even protest. Mostly because Derek's fresh from outdoors, his jeans are drenched with the snow, and he's totally staring.

They haven't had a Christmas snowstorm in years (thank you, global warming) but this year brought one with a vengeance. It's the most time he's ever gotten to spend with Dad over the holidays and, yeah,  
there's also the added bonus of strapping young werewolves in soaking wet, ass-hugging clothing.

Well, crotch-hugging in this case.

A cushion whacks him in the head and he shoots a wounded look at Scott. "Seriously, man?" He brandishes the can in his hand. " _Beer_."

Scott smirks, another crotchet-covered missile already at the ready. "So?" 

Stiles throws the cushion back and looks past him at the window. Horizontal snow. Oh, yeah, four day weekend at _least_. "Full moon should be sweet this month," he says. "No way the hunters can follow you guys in this kind of snow."

Skidoos are too noisy and nobody's graceful on snowshoes. He pictures Chris Argent trying that one and snorts beer up his nose.

"Should be," Derek agrees, "Don't know how well Erica and Boyd will handle it though." Isaac, at least, has spent years in the snow, helping his dad with the plowing business. "We might end up just coming here."

"More the merrier," Stiles says, cheerful. "Scott can always use the company and I've got spare chains if anyone needs 'em." Which, wow, way weirder aloud than in his head. "And it's official, I am the worst cop's kid _ever_ , change of subject please?"

Derek smirks into his drink, but apparently decides to humor him since he asks, "What was the best thing ever?"

"Mummering," Scott answers before Stiles can speak up. "He hated it when he got here." 

"I did _not_!" Stiles protests. He gets up, takes two steps, then promptly yelps when cold water seeps through his socks. He scrambles for dry floor, but there's not much to be found. "The hell, Derek? There's snow everywhere." Derek's tracks lead all the way back to the door where his boots are puddling water by the door. He picks his way across the cabin, muttering, "If this stains the floors, you're explaining it to Nan Edna." Who isn't actually his Nan, he doesn't think Edna actually has any grandkids, but everyone in town calls her that. She'd smacked Stiles with an oven mitt when he'd tried to use ma'am. 

By the way Derek's face pales, Stiles isn't the only one she's smacked like that. 

"Mop's by the stove," he says, sweet as honey. "And I didn't hate mummering, Scott. Hence the extolling of it's many virtues and lamenting the loss of the tradition. It's a cultural disaster, I tell you."

"You said it was a safety hazard," Scott grins. 

"Mountie's kid," Stiles points out, heading into the kitchen. "Letting complete strangers into your house wearing disguises? It seemed like a good way to get robbed." But he still remembers the grin on his Dad's face, standing by the kitchen door as people had poured through it, producing musical instruments and bottles from the bizarre costumes they were wearing. 

It was the first time he'd seen his Dad smile like that since the funeral. 

"We used to do it when I was a kid," Derek says, thoughtful, from where he's mopping up the melted snow. "It was a good exercise for the younger kids in the pack."

Stiles can't even make fun of that and not just for obvious reasons. He thinks about all that noise and colour, scents intermingling and rubbing on everyone until everybody smelled like everybody else— "That's actually a really smart idea." He pictures a tiny Derek standing in the middle of a kitchen, worn tiles beneath his sock-covered feet, staring up at the dancing figures around him and trying to figure out just who was who beneath the dresses, nightgowns, and long-underwear. 

He doesn't mean to think it. Doesn't mean to let his head leap from there to the fire and Derek alone. 

Stiles stops where he stands, fingers curled around the chipped white knob on the cupboard door, staring at the bag of chips he was going for.

"It was your family, wasn't it?" he asks, turning around to look at Derek. "When they came to the house, the mummers, when I was—that was you?"

Derek nods. 

"Were you—"

"Blue dress," Derek says, flushing a little. 

"The one with the—" Stiles gestures to his chest and Scott chokes on his drink. "The bra? Those things were _huge_." And probably the source of a few, uh, _fantasies_ when he finally hit puberty. "Man, I had such a crush on you," he says. "You wore the hell out of that dress." 

Derek ducks his head, but there's no hiding the red ears. 

Stiles turns back to the cupboard and grins. _Awesome_. 

Fighting to keep his voice casual, he says, "About the dress--don't suppose you still have it?"

Derek's quiet for a minute, maybe two, before saying, "No, but I do still have the bra."


End file.
